They say new cities are lonely.
I might be alone but I’m not lonely.
The Outpost taught me to accommodate myself, it gave me the opportunity to become better acquainted with me, my own Eat Pray Love episode. I’m OK with my own company, enhanced by books, the ether, BBMs from my children, a gloriously, happy, uplifting telephone call from my well-mum, a walk with eternally joyful Pili, a precious weekend at home with Ant because he is back after a week in the bush. He travels, as he did in the Outpost; my two-ness telescopes to just one, distils the Me in all of this.
There is a peculiar peace though. The words are all lining up in my head, pushing and shoving, urgently seeking attention. It’s a mark of happy-me, that the words are looking for a place to be. When life goes awry the words are lost, slide to the side amidst the mess and the blur as I try to pick up the pieces.
This alone-but-not-lonely city is an easy one. My friend G described Zambia as ‘Kenya in a Tupperware’. I laughed when he said it but I didn’t know what he meant. Until I got here. This city feels manageable, tamer, contained after Mombasa’s chaotic, cacophonous, tuk-tuk ridden sprawl. It’s neat layout easily navigable. And the avenues are alight with flamboyant, as if the roads are fire-lined, crimson blossom bleeding to the earth beneath them. And I remember the beautiful tree in my Outpost garden and I smile for it all seems so reachable suddenly. The first banner for this blog. A fullness of circles. It feels a tiny bit like Home.
Hat will be here in the morning, for a glorious two week mid term break, and my smile widens as I put the things she likes to eat into my supermarket trolley in anticipation of her arrival.
Tomorrow I will not be alone.